


Drunk Eyes Shine Bright Like A Sky Full of Comets

by getyouwhateverthepayne



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getyouwhateverthepayne/pseuds/getyouwhateverthepayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry the art student is maybe obsessed with Zayn the much better art student, and then it's Liam's birthday and there's a horrendous vodka punch of which he's had three and will definitely blame everything on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> helLo pals this has two parts and i wrote them a little while ago on my phone (don't judge me pls) and posted them on my blog but never here?
> 
> also i completely 100% forgot i even wrote this until today. apparently before i actually shipped zarry i wrote zarry
> 
> you can read this on my blog [here](http://getyouwhateverthepayne.tumblr.com/post/69995110138/drunk-eyes-shine-bright-like-a-sky-full-of-comets)
> 
> and the song title is basically taken from [this song!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ItrO33Hg48)
> 
> hope you enjouoyooyooyoyyyy!

He dabs his boar bristle brush into the spot of paint, absentmindedly breaking the hairs when he presses down a little too hard like he always does. Looking back at the canvas, Harry twists his mouth to the side.

He’s not some great artist. He knows this. He’s good, his fellow Studio Art painters always tell him that whenever they walk by, and he’s got two student awards under his belt, but he’s not amazing. There’s no deep pain hidden somewhere inside him, hasn’t got a secret muse to make his work that of a tortured genius.

He’s not like Zayn Malik, is what he’s saying, that aloof boy with the necklaces and the big flannel shirts and the model hair cut who sits across from Harry in their shared afternoon Independent period.

Which is right now.

Zayn Malik. He’s a little bit of a legend in school. He moved here a few years ago and lives on the other side of town, but no one really knows where he’s from, which may be due to the fact that he keeps mostly to himself and his three sisters. Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever even heard him speak.

All Harry does know is the boy’s got a wicked handle on a brush and a brooding look that might make you stab your palette knife through your own painting when he finally happens to glance in your general direction.

Not that that happened.

(It was an accident.)

But thinking of the boy’s intimidating enigmatic creative genius is why Harry now stares with disdain at his own utterly blank canvas.

It’s an accurate depiction of his current state of mind, he thinks. Or maybe a metaphor for the state of his life. Either way, he’s distracted enough that a warm hand on his shoulder makes him jump.

“How are we doing?” asks the voice behind him. His teacher leans over him to scrutinize the messy charcoal sketch that sits beside him on the art table and Harry holds his tongue, waiting for the critique, shifting awkwardly on his stool. He lifts the paint-stained brush off his palette and into his cup of water.

The cup’s an empty grape juice can that he brought from home. The Fine Arts are not exactly Holmes Chapel Comprehensive’s proudest academic achievement.

“Dunno,” Harry answers reluctantly, not moving his head from the canvas but glancing up at his instructor. He’s a nice guy, new, from Manchester, with a little too much enthusiasm for everything, but Harry doesn’t mind him. Likes him, actually. He cares about people and he’s got a good eye and that’s really all you need. Plus, his sarcasm is refreshing.

Mr. Grimshaw glances back at him with an amused smile. “What’s the sketch? Man in Doorway?”

“Took the picture in Ireland,” Harry explains, drumming his fingers on his jeans. “Last summer. There was this old man…This was his shop that he’s standing outside, and he’s smoking a cigarette, with this old suede hat and black suit on, very proper, right? And then he looked at me and told me hated them. The cigarettes. And yeah. That’s all he said to me. I thought he was really interesting, so I asked him for a picture.”

He wouldn’t have noticed the man, though, had he not been walking down the opposite side of the road with a seventeen year old boy with big brown eyes and sun freckles on his neck who had lightheartedly pulled them over to meet him.

It’s hard to think of that boy without making him into something entirely unreal. He was the perfect thing. Harry feels a twang of missing him before he shakes his head.

Over, past, done, last summer, get it together, Styles.

“So it’s got a story behind it,” Mr. Grimshaw says.

“You could say.” Harry blushes, fumbling with his watch.

There are really only so many things you go into with your art teacher, especially with Zayn Malik also sitting right across from you and possibly judging.

Even if he has his earphones in and clearly isn’t listening.

“I think I’ll do it on raw canvas,” Harry decides. “Just black acrylic, Mr. Grim—-sorry. Nick?” he corrects himself. Mr. Grimshaw always tells his students to call him his first name, seeing as he just graduated from art school and still feels like a teenager, but Harry is yet to get used to it. It’s a nice sentiment though.

“Interesting,” Nick answers. “Okay, I like it. Go with it, see where it ends up.”

There’s a commotion by the sink, and they both look up fast. The sight elicits a growl from his teacher.

“Tomlinson!” he yells, already tired of the kid’s shit even though he’s only been teaching three months – Tomlinson sneaks in the class from gym with his footballer friends every week, flirting with the girls who always watch him with half annoyance and half intrigue.

Nick’s hand leaves Harry’s shoulder as he runs off to wrestle the poster paints from the sixth form’s devious fingers, as apparently the commotion had been caused from Tomlinson — Louis, is his actual name — climbing on the sink counter to search the cabinets before slipping and crashing onto an art table.

Harry notices Zayn Malik chance a flicker of eyes up from his sketchbook before coolly pressing his pencil back down on paper. He never even fully looks at him, but Harry still gets faint butterflies.

He wonders what he’s done to deserve such a desperate existence. He hates everything. Thank God it’s already Thursday.

-

The music is loud enough in the house that Harry’s ears can’t fully focus on exactly what song is trembling the windows, but he soon decides that’s a good thing.

Already he feels a pleasant buzz running through him – possibly thanks to a much-too-large glass of some horrendous combination of vodka and fruit punch that’s currently sloshing around in his swaying hand. Some random face had shoved it at him the second he’d walked in the door, only a few minutes ago, and despite its awful taste, it’s rather addicting.

Which is probably not going to end well.

But it’s Friday and it doesn’t matter and it’s a house party and there are more than a few semi-attractive boys present, so maybe not all is wrong with the world. He takes another sip and – shit, okay, that’s strong.

Good.

Harry searches for Liam under the dim light in the crowd of people and finally spots him with his arms around two girls from the field hockey team. He shouts his name, and Liam looks up with a confused and dopey sideways smile.

“Styles!” his best friend shouts, accidentally knocking one of the girls into a lamp as he stumbles like an excited puppy over to Harry, forgetting them completely. “You made it! Was thinking you’d never show,” he pouts, pulling Harry in for a bone-crushing hug.

“Happy birthday,” Harry yells in his ear, trying to be heard over the pulsating beat of some electro-rap that’s pounding through the speakers. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up at work.” Liam pulls back and looks him over with unfocused eyes. It’s endearing, really, his expression, and Harry has to stifle a giggle when Liam licks his thumb and presses it to Harry’s nose.

“Flour,” Liam slurs in explanation, shaking his head like he’s thinking Harry is such a silly boy who needs the clucky hand of a mother, which Liam is more than willing to give. (Even if the boy is one hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle and manliness, he’s honestly quite a fluffy bunny on the inside. He specifically hates being called ‘fluffy bunny,’ too, so of course Harry will say it every chance he gets.)

Liam accidentally frees some strands of his light brown hair from its death hold of hair gel and they fall into his eyes, so he blows air up and looks quite like a frustrated toddler. After Harry’s done taking in the very amusing sight, he frowns a bit.

“Still?” he says, rubbing his own nose. “Thought I got it all…” After a second of thought he just decides to frenetically rub his hands all over the expanse of his entire face, until he sees Liam laughing. “What?”

“You…you’re so cute when you do that, Haz, this is not okay. We need to you get you a girlfriend tonight, okay? We’re gonna get…get you a…wait, you’re into boys, you’re gonna get laid tonight, kay?”

“Slow down, Li, just got here,” Harry laughs, glad the blush on his cheeks can be passed off as a result of the humid, sweaty atmosphere and the alcohol and not embarrassment.

Speaking of, he gulps down the rest and scrunches his face a little when it burns. “I’m gonna get another drink, fluffy bunny. Know where Niall is?”

Liam is still giggling, mumbling something that sounds like “Too fuckin’ cute for this world, cutie,” so unfortunately Harry’s nickname passes by unnoticed. He’ll have to try again later tonight. Liam looks back at him.

“Niall? Think I saw him in the kitchen,” he offers. He sways a bit on the spot and Harry pats him on the back and tells him to pace himself, but he knows the warning will go entirely unheeded: ever since Liam found out his kidney had healed itself last month, the track runner has been making up for what seems like years of lost drinking time in the space of about three weeks.

It’s pretty impressive, he has to admit. Not advisable, of course – but still pretty impressive.

When he looks back just to check, Liam’s already gone, stumbling and throwing his arms around people’s shoulders, just being a generally jolly ol’ drunk. That’s one of the things Harry loves about his best friend.

He spins back around to continue his search for Niall but is immediately confronted with a bright-faced Cara, one of the pretty girls from his Econ class. “Harry!” she gleefully shouts, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss on the cheek. “Great party, isn’t it? Glad you’re here. Having fun?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Harry smiles, averting his eyes for a second to look for Niall – he thinks he saw a glint of blonde somewhere to his right. “Have you seen Niall anywhere?” he echoes his thoughts.

“Niall?” Cara repeats, looking a bit put out that he’s not responding as well as she’d like to the hands that have somehow found themselves on Harry’s chest. “I don’t know.”

“Just, me and him need to get our present for Liam together. That’s okay, I’ll find him. Thanks.” He goes for a small kiss on the cheek, but he misses a little and fumbles and it lands on the corner of her mouth instead. The peck was really just a tactic for her to let go, and it works, which is good, but he also notices her eyes are a little more lustful than four seconds ago. She bites her lip, and he figures he better make a run for it.

She lunges, eyes closed, and he jerks back.

“Just be off then,” he says quickly, voice a little high. He laughs loudly to break off whatever mood had been between them and sidles past her and steps over Liam’s couch to enter the kitchen.

It’s just as crowded there, too, but finding Niall is no problem now: he’s in clear sight on the island, pulling out some impressively coordinated air guitar skills as the guys and girls around him cheer.

Niall is completely in his element, completely trashed and at the center of the fun, and Harry feels too bad to interrupt. He watches for a couple minutes, and then the song ends and everyone claps and yells and cheers and Niall jumps down from the counter, laughing like a maniac.

Harry loves Niall for that: you could just probably breathe and he’d break down in hysterics, especially when you get a few beers in him. Shoving off from the doorframe, Harry taps him on the shoulder. “Incredible,” he says in way of a hello.

Niall turns around too fast and has to put both hands on Harry’s shoulders for support when he laughs. “Haz! Made it! Havin’ fun times at the bakery, were we?”

“Caroline needed me,” Harry answers, already knowing what Niall is going to say.

“Older ladies, eh, Haz? Unstoppable, that’s what you are. Need you to show me your technique.”

“Well, first off, don’t burp in their face, twat,” Harry says, grimacing, because that’s exactly what Niall’s just done. It smells like a mixture of beer and pizza and meat, which is probably pretty accurate, and Niall doesn’t even care. He’s just laughing.

“Drink?” he offers, reaching behind him and miraculously pulling out two Guinesses from out of nowhere. Harry raises his eyebrows, surprised, even though he knows he really shouldn’t be; Niall could pull a beer out of his ass if he really tried hard enough.

“Thanks,” Harry yells, popping it open. “Oh. Liam’s present.”

“Shit! You got it?” Niall shouts, before lowering his voice. “What is it again?”

“Tickets to Jay-Z, next weekend,” Harry responds, taking a swig of his beer; his last cup must have gotten lost along the way. “Just need you to pay me back half.”

“How much again?”

“Thirty five,” Harry answers. “Don’t do it now,” he says, seeing Niall start to pull out his wallet. “Just his birthday card.”

“Right, thanks, don’t think I could count now anyway.” Niall shoves his Velcro wallet back in his jeans pocket, still chuckling at nothing in particular. “Where is it?”

“Car,” Harry answers. “Come on, I parked down the street.”

They leave and sign the card and wrap everything up, and by the time they return to Liam’s house, it’s even more crowded than before.

“Shit, don’t know half these people,” Niall mutters, glancing at Harry as they push and shove their way to the stairs.

They’re both staying over because Liam genuinely wrote them up a contract that stated that if they were indeed to throw Liam “The Most Ultimate Party Of The Year, Liam, Believe Us, It’ll Be Awesome, Ugh, Please, Fine, We Won’t Hire Clowns This Year,” they had to agree to help clean up the aftermath before Liam’s parents returned from Spain.

They both signed it – with a lot of grumbling and fudging of the rules and ‘NO!’s – but they’re officially roped in now, and all of their cleaning supplies and overnight things are up in Liam’s room.

The two of them stumble through the door to his bedroom, a.k.a the only safe place left in the house, somehow having found two new glasses of that fruit punch vodka in both of their hands. That’s when they both freeze, and two gasps are audible from somewhere near the region of the bed. Niall flicks on a light.

Oh, ew.

Niall immediately closes his eyes. “Out,” he grunts, waving a finger that should point to the door but just ends up hitting Harry’s nose, so Harry grabs his hand and shoves it down.

“Guys, not upstairs,” Harry groans, downplaying his disgust when he sees the girl and boy hastily pulling on their discarded clothes. “Thanks.”

Not too shameful, though, are they, seeing as the guy is still sucking on the girl’s neck when he bumps Harry’s shoulder as they leave. “Way to ruin all the fun, mate,” mutters the boy.

Harry glances at them with a good stink-eye ready when he realizes it’s Tomlinson and some girl from his art class.

Figures. That boy has a destructive quality unique to only the rarest of humankind.

Niall just mime retches and slams the door behind them, dropping the card and the envelope on the now contaminated bed sheets. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, huh?” Niall nods to Harry with a knowing look.

Harry agrees and swings an arm over the blonde’s shoulder, leading them both away from the horrific memory and back down to the party. He takes another large gulp of the vodka punch, effectively quelling the horror of the past two minutes.  
-  
The buzz he’d been feeling before has now officially turned into a pleasant haze, and he feels like he’s floating from one person to the next without really knowing who’s who or what’s going on. It’s great because he has a feeling he’s not the only one.

He’s on his fourth drink of that vodka punch, telling everyone who’ll listen about the time he auditioned for X-Factor last spring, when someone runs past him with a vase in his hand and knocks him sideways, sending him careening into the couch and right onto someone’s lap.

Quite a comfortable lap. His current person-functioning-as-a-seat for Harry’s splayed-out body definitely smells too good for Harry to move.

“Um,” says his current person-functioning-as-a-seat. “Alright?”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Harry slurs, with a giggle that bubbles up from his chest. “Mm, you know I was on the X-Factor once? And you smell nice.”

“Thanks. I was just, erm, leaving though…”

“Why?” Harry moans, drawling out the word, snuggling the side of his face into the stranger’s neck. He’s not thinking, but it’s fine because it’s Friday and it doesn’t matter and it’s a house party and there are more than a few semi-attractive boys present, and one of them is most definitely sitting quite stiffly beneath Harry’s ass right now. “Stay, why d’you want to go?”

“Um,” says the stranger, his voice wonderfully low, “nothing. Doesn’t matter. Just someone convinced me to come. There was this person I came to see, but they’re currently—.”

“Not paying you any attention?” Harry guesses, feeling sympathy for the voice in his ear. “Aw. I’ve totally been there, I get it.” His mind miserably wanders towards plaid shirts and model haircuts and he’s a bit terribly sad about it all, so he wiggles around for more skin-to-skin contact to ease his infinite pain.

“You’ve been? Right.”

Harry decides this is some sort of accidental compliment, and snuggles down further into his lap. Person-functioning-as-a-seat seems molded for his shape.

“Anyway,” says the voice, “no, not ignoring me. They’re just, you know, I think too drunk to remember anything, and I don’t think I want to just be–.”

“A drunk hookup,” Harry finishes, nodding in understanding and feeling the scratch of the guy’s stubble against his cheek. How did their cheeks start being this close? Harry has no control. But he doesn’t mind because one of the boy’s hands is resting on Harry’s thighs and the other unintentionally found its way around his hips, probably to keep him from falling over, but no matter, and a perk of sudden interest happens somewhere in the region of Harry’s pants. He then gets a wonderfully stupid idea. “Well if you don’t want a drunk hookup with the girl you like,” he bubbles, “try it with me.”

“What? No–”

“’Fraid of boys, are yah?” he teases, tracing a single finger down the stranger’s arm that raises the hairs. “Don’t worry, just like kissing a girl, promise.” Harry didn’t know he was quite like this when this obscenely drunk, but you learn something new every day. Plus, this stranger’s voice is kind of doing lovely things to him. It’s very hot. So he’s probably very hot. The boy’s arm right now currently looks very hot wrapped around Harry’s waist, so. Case closed. He purposefully adjusts on the boy’s lap, loving the fact that the stranger hasn’t pushed him off yet. If anything, the boy’s legs spread out a little to give him a little more room. Yes, Harry thinks, this must mean something.

“Thank you?”

Oh. He doesn’t know exactly what part of that last train of thought he said out loud. Doesn’t matter, though; flattery gets you everywhere. 

Harry finally shifts off the stranger’s lap, still keeping his legs draped over the other boy’s legs, leans his side into the couch cushions, and tries to get a good look at his face. But it’s too dark and his aren’t really focused anyway, so it’s all a bit pointless. He suddenly realizes their faces are very close now, so Harry blinks slowly and leans forward (because fuck all and why not), his slightly opened mouth catching on the surprised stranger’s bottom lip once he turns to face him. And then he pulls back an infinitesimal amount, nervous, but goes for it again more eagerly when he sees the stranger sort of hesitantly trying to follow his retreating lips. All he hears is a little intake of breath, and then his lips are on his and their mouths are open and they’re really kissing.

Okay, whoa. His insides are tingly and warm like melting butter because this stranger’s lips are really soft and more pliant and willing than he’d expected, and it’s probably because of the alcohol, but he’ll take it. He will definitely take it.

Harry’s hand finds its way to the stranger’s jaw and feels that it’s cut and pretty and quite a nice place to leave his hand, really. He then finds he’s eagerly crawling back onto the boy’s lap but this time to straddle it, his knees on either side of the boy’s hips, pressing into the cushions, and the stranger seems to instinctively put his hands on the dips of Harry’s waist.

“See?” Harry breathes, opening his mouth and tasting spearmint and alcohol and everything good in the world, “just like a girl. Got the lips for it, haven’t I?”

The stranger seems to nod, groan, before his fingers press tightly into the skin of Harry’s waist and something happens where either the boy lays them both down on the couch or Harry pushes them down that way, but either way, Harry finds himself on top. He rests his forearms on either side of the boy’s head, pinning him down with the length of his body, hips occasionally grinding. Their ankles are intertwined at the other end of the couch.

Harry hovers over him teasingly, a mess of loose curls obscuring his vision and very nearly tickling the stranger’s face, before he dips down and catches the boy’s waiting lips with his own. After a few blissful minutes, Harry’s blushed lips move in a trail of kisses down to the stranger’s throat.

Harry’s open lips are about to press wetly down and start sucking at the hollow beneath the boy’s bobbing Adam’s apple, right above that thin silver chain around his neck, when something in Harry’s foggy brain clicks. He jumps back.

He sits up way too fast, feeling a cool rush of air where the boy’s body had been keeping him warm, and the room decides to start spinning on him.

God, he is dizzy.

“What’s happened?” says the beautiful stranger to his side, confused, still splayed out listlessly on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

Except it’s not a stranger.

The hair, the jawline, the necklace: of course. It all adds up now. The weight of things is finally apparent, because he’s just realized he’s just fucking made out with Zayn Malik.

Zayn fucking Malik. The legend himself. Why is he here? Harry swivels around to really, truly scrutinize his face, but yes. He’s staring into the ungodly beautiful face of Zayn.

Apparently Harry can’t even go five minutes drunk without trying to seduce the very good-looking, very straight boy he maybe fancies from his art class.

Well. There goes any chance he’s ever had with him. He stands up too quickly and stumbles.

Zayn’s hands catch him. “All right?”

“No,” Harry splutters, shaking his head. He can’t believe he’s finally hearing his voice. He can’t believe his voice is exceeding his expectations, and he can’t believe there’s still room in his horrified brain to be thinking that. He can’t believe this just happened. “Actually, I think I’m going to be sick.”

And it’s not a lie, either; Harry’s stomach is churning uncomfortably and the back of his throat is starting to feel tight, and before Zayn can do anything, Harry’s running through the crowds of people and tossing up all of that wretched vodka fruit juice into the bathroom sink, which tastes even worse on the way back up than it had going down.

Who the fuck invited Zayn, anyway?

What the fuck? This is a rare sighting, definitely. He can think of absolutely no reason the Legend would ever show up to Harry’s friend’s birthday party, of all things.

He was waiting for someone, obviously. He said that. But not Harry! He caught him off guard, just nudged his way in and probably scarred him for the rest of this life and the next-

“Harry?” There’s a voice behind him. He groans.

Looking reluctantly up into the mirror, he sees his own horrid reflection right up close looking back at him and someone else standing behind him at the entrance of the bathroom. God, no. He just sees an outline, but he knows it’s Zayn.

He doesn’t think he can handle whatever it is he’s going to get from him right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says almost inaudibly before the boy can open his mouth, voice wrecked from the sick. He drops his head, hands on either side of the sink, letting his big ringlet curls fall into his face. It’s cruelly similar to the position he was just in with Zayn, but in all the wrong ways.

“I’m sorry, shouldn’t have done that.” Harry feels a lot more sober now than he had five minutes ago. “That was so stupid of me-.”

“Harry, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but I was just checking on you ‘cause you looked sick and I don’t want anybody to be sick on my birthday and I think I found you a cute boy and maybe a bird if you’re into threeways so brush your teeth and let’s get moving. The night’s not over!”

And then Liam leaves, twirling a fucking actual baton that he probably found up Niall’s ass like the rest of the impossible things.

Harry wipes his mouth and feels a new wave of drowsiness wash over him. He’d go back to crash on the sofa temporarily, but that area is way too unsafe for him to go right now, so he settles instead on finding his way upstairs, wrestling his toothbrush out of his overnight bag and brushing his teeth. Then he goes down and sits on a kitchen chair and watches the rest of the night unfold while he acts like that anti-social drunk uncle at everyone’s family reunion, weighed down by the horrors of his past and the charity case that should be his life.

He finds he doesn’t really care about that in the slightest, because he still can’t believe he fucking stuck his tongue down Zayn Malik’s throat tonight.

Fuck all.

School is going to suck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should put a note but i have nothing to say. enjoy? this is pretty short compared to the last part

He doesn’t get enough time to think about how much school is going to suck though because approximately forty-seven minutes after he sits down (no, he wasn’t counting), he feels a presence.

Yes, a presence. Right behind him.

Three inches from his left ear.

It tickles.

And the presence just goes, “Harry.” It’s deep, reverberating, quiet. “Your name’s Harry, right?”

Antisocial drunk uncle has just enough foresight to not projectile vomit across the room. So instead he just mumbles, “Hnngh?”

The presence breathes out through his nose, a silent laugh, and Harry feels the rush of cool air tickle the back of his neck.

“I’ve seen you in art class, yeah?”

There are lips millimeters away from Harry’s earlobe and he wants desperately to turn his head the mere ninety degrees required to be able to meet them with his own instead of answering.

Wait. No.

No, he just wants this night to be over. He just wants to be able to go back to his stupid grape juice can on Monday without having to worry about The Legend staring back at him from across the table with disgust and embarrassment and judgment in his pretty brown eyes.

And there’s no doubt that that will happen, as the one hope that had been sustaining Harry for the past forty-seven minutes — that Zayn may not have realized who he was in the heat of the moment — had been dashed the second the presence in his ear said his name out loud.

Because he knows who the presence is. No prizes for guessing; he’s already got that voice memorized to the last dip and vowel, despite the fact that he only heard it for the first time an hour ago.

Finally, he turns around. Zayn’s bright brown eyes are closer than he expected.

Before he does something dumb – which is possible because he is currently in awe of the thickness and fullness and length of Zayn’s dark eyelashes and the lovely way they curl up and frame his even lovelier eyes in a dewy, honey-like beauty — shut up, brain — Harry launches into a tirade of excuses.

"Zayn?" he squeaks, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I’m so sorry, I was drunk and I’m still drunk, to be quite honest, and I didn’t know who you were and I wouldn’t have done that if I’d known, and if you want to we can pretend this never happened, which won’t be hard, I’ll just get another one of those vodka punches and I’ll be good, it’ll be completely and permanently gone from my memory in about two-"

"You had those, too?"

"The vodka things?" Harry says, out of breath from that marathon. "Yeah. Fucking awful."

"Satan’s piss, they were," Zayn smirks, and Harry swears he almost sees him wink.

"Addicting, though," Harry relents. (He can’t believe they’re sort of bonding over artificially flavored fruit drinks right now. He also can’t believe Zayn can make a phrase like ‘Satan’s piss’ sound like a beautiful melody from the Angels of Heaven above.)

"Oh, obviously."

"Get one with me?"

Then Harry blanches.

"No, sorry, I’m doing it again, you’re waiting for-"

"Sure," Zayn answers, his lip pulling up at the corner. He fits an arm behind Harry’s waist and pulls him up and into Zayn’s side, tripping them back a few paces and keeping them closer than before. Harry figures Zayn must be drunker than he looks because he swears that was almost a flirting move. "And, um," Zayn breathes into his ear as they walk, “There actually…um, the girl never showed. So don’t worry.”

Zayn’s fingers spread out across Harry’s lower back as he leads them toward the cooler in the family room, and their sides brush against each other with every step and things had not been progressing so well five minutes ago, and Harry’s so overwhelmed with touching he’s feeling a little happily woozy.

"Sorry to hear that," Harry says, not sorry in the slightest. In fact, he feels like skipping. He feels like singing. He feels like pirouetting toward the nearest ballet studio.

Then he feels Zayn’s arm pull him closer an infinitesimal amount when he stumbles into someone.

“Alright?”

Yes, Harry thinks, yes, I’m way more than alright. Zayn doesn’t move away from the new intimate closeness and Harry knows it’s probably because he genuinely fears for Harry’s compromised balance abilities, but he doesn’t care and really likes the sure warmth of Zayn’s body against him, so much so he wants to stumble again.

No. No, no, Harry, breathe. This is Zayn Malik you’re talking about here. Nothing’s happening right now. This is just the vodka and your own desperation talking.

Man, he really wants to kiss him.

“I really wanna kiss you.”

Nice. Nice one, brain. Thanks.

“Uhum, what?”

“I said I, um, I’m an idiot, I don’t know what made me just say that.”

“My outgoing personality and charm couldn’t be the reason, then.”

It takes Harry a second to catch on to the fact that Zayn is joking. (Wow; the Legend has got a sense of humor.)

“Ummmmmmm, well, yeah.” Harry blushes. “Basically. Also, you’re you. So, there’s that. Okay, officially an idiot now-“

“Harry, you’re not an idiot.”

“No, I am, because I really want to kiss you right now, and I know you’re-.”

He’s cut off by a pair of lips pressing lightly down on his own, effectively shutting him up. A quiet voice whispers against his mouth. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Zayn’s lips brush against his own another time, and then another, and Harry finds he’s somehow been backed up against a wall. He didn’t even know there was a wall in their vicinity. His lips are touching his again and Harry is in heaven. “You gonna kiss me back, or what?”

Harry squeaks and pulls back. “I’m not a charity case, you know-“

Zayn forcefully pulls Harry in by the waist and tortures him by keeping his mouth only a millimeter away from Harry’s, stepping between Harry’s legs. “Never said you were,” he whispers, dipping down to trace his lip with his tongue. “If you want, we can forget this in the morning. Blame it on the vodka.”

“You want that?”

Zayn shakes his head an infinitesimal amount, enough that he probably thinks Harry doesn’t notice, and keeps on kissing him.

“What does the head shake mean?” Harry breathes.

“Let’s put it this way,” Zayn says between kisses. “I’ve wanted to do this,” kiss, “since I saw you in the halls two years ago.” He presses a kiss below Harry’s jaw. “Art class,” kiss, “has been torture for me.” Kiss. “All year. And that girl I came to see?” Kiss. “There was no girl.” Kiss. “It was you.”

“Me?”

“D’you really think I’d just stop by your friend’s birthday party just for the hell of it?”

Harry catches Zayn’s bottom lip with his own. “You are mysterious,” he says, finally relenting and letting Zayn attach to his neck. “Can never know your motives.”

Zayn lets up to bite at Harry’s earlobe lightly, sliding his hands down Harry’s waist, and smirks. “Upstairs?”

Harry laughs, and it sounds surprisingly level for someone who is ecstatic off the charts and about to reach stratospheric levels of happiness. “Think I can guess one motive,” he breathes.

Zayn winks, grabs his hand, and starts to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look! what's that in the sky? a bird? harry styles' headband? my sanity? NO! it's my [tumblr!](http://www.getyouwhateverthepayne.tumblr.com)
> 
> disappointing, ik


End file.
